


vow

by halo21



Series: vow [1]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Band Fic, Bandmates with benefits?, Cheating, Drug Abuse, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Non-Linear Narrative, Overdosing, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Promiscuity, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Suicide Attempt, Touring, Unhealthy Relationships, that should be a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: "i can't stop when it comes to you..."♡bettie wuornos was never any stranger to ruining lives. especially her own.
Relationships: Gidget Gein/Original Character(s), Marilyn Manson/Original Female Character(s), Trent Reznor/Original Character(s)
Series: vow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988449
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mark_sways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mark_sways/gifts).



> This is going to be a wild ride,
> 
> Title from "Vow" by Garbage 
> 
> Check tags for warnings and leave a comment and kudos if you please. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

October 7, 2000

DISPATCH: 911, what's your emergency?

CALLER: I'm... fucking... dying.

DISPATCH: Can... can you elaborate on that, ma'am?

CALLER: I'm... dying. Overdosing. I can't... fucking.. breathe...

DISPATCH: Okay, okay. Try and stay calm for me, alright?

CALLER: Hard staying... calm when you... can't breathe.

DISPATCH: Focus, miss. What did you take?

CALLER: Take?

DISPATCH: What substance have you consumed?

CALLER: Whiskey... Ativan.

DISPATCH: Oh... okay. Just... stay on the phone with me, okay?

CALLER: Alright.

DISPATCH: Where are you?

CALLER: It's, um... 215, Coastal... Drive. Seaport... Apartments...

DISPATCH: Yes, ma'am. You're inside the apartment?

CALLER: Yeah. Bathroom.

DISPATCH: Okay, good. I'm sending someone your way. I'm going to keep you engaged in the meantime.

CALLER: I'd like... to hear you try.

DISPATCH: Well, I will. Can I have your name?

CALLER: No.

DISPATCH: Okay, then. No name. How old are you?

CALLER: Twenty... seven.

DISPATCH: Is there anyone there with you?

CALLER: No.

DISPATCH: Oh... Jesus.

CALLER: He... won't help me.

DISPATCH: Sorry... I didn't know you could hear that...

CALLER: That's... alright. Oh, fuck... I'm... going out...

DISPATCH: Going out? No, no, stay with me.

DISPATCH: Ma'am?


	2. This is not my idea of a good time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: drug use, drinking
> 
> Chapter Title: "Not My Idea" by Garbage

Los Angeles, 1992

The party was buck-fucking-wild. Everywhere Bettie looked, there was something going on, the kind of stuff that she'd only dreamed about seeing at home.

The air was clouded with the mingling smells of sex and weed and something chemical. There was liquor all around, — more than she'd ever imagined in her wildest adolescent dreams. A group of guys were at the table, unabashedly snorting white powder off the wood finish. A few minutes earlier, she had watched a guy go into a bedroom, three goth girls trailing behind him. The final girl had locked the door, a knowing sort of smile on her black-painted lips. 

The place made her head spin. Just a year ago, she'd been at a school acquaintance's house party, doing nothing more risque than taking a hit off her friend's water bong and flashing her tits for a couple of the guys who usually sat in the back of the class. 

Now, she was in LA, mingling amongst the up-and-coming. She had a rum and coke in her hand that she wasn't drinking, the colors and shapes of the room were threatening to knock her off her feet, and her mouth still tasted stale, — more than likely from what she had done in order to get the acid tab that had melted on her tongue half an hour ago. 

She knew that she was at some extreme or another, — either making her way up to the top or burning out, just as everyone had said that she would. She just couldn't quite tell which. 

What she did know was that she wasn't gonna stop anytime soon.

"I'm thinking I'm gonna have to replace Berkowitz next," Brian told her, his arm still wrapped around her waist as they made their way through the sea of people crowding the living room. 

"Yeah?" Bettie responded, doing her best to sound shocked.

In truth, this came as no surprise to her. 

Berkowitz, — or Scott, as he asked she call him when the others weren't around, — was the only one of the Spooky Kids that she hadn't slept with. 

It wasn't that he was repulsive in any particular way, — really, all of the guys fit that bill pretty well,— but that he'd never tried putting the moves on her. All he'd ever offered her was discussions of lo-fi albums and quick looks of concern. 

She thought he was quite polite.

Brian said he was a pussy.

"Yeah," Brian agreed. "He keeps talking about direction, and it's all fucking bullshit. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he wanted to stay in Florida forever."

He squeezed her waist then, as if he were a boa constrictor, attempting to smother the life out of her. She forced a smile onto her face, knowing to react kindly to these displays of not-quite-affection, — after all, that was the best way to get the things she wanted. 

"Think you'd be interested in taking his place?"

Suddenly, her mouth felt really dry. She took a quick swig of her drink before meeting his two-toned eyes. "You really think you'd want a girl in the band?"

Brian shrugged. "Why the fuck not?" he asked. "I mean, people can't take their eyes off you when I put you up there in a cage or drag you around on a leash." He grinned, his hand travelling upwards for a quick grope. "Hey... maybe I could have you play with your tits out."

She swatted his hands away. "No, thanks," she declared. "At least to the playing with my tits out part. As for the joining the band part... I guess we'll see." 

"Atta girl." Another squeeze, — this time to her backside. For a brief moment, she wondered why she put herself into this position where some guy's hands were constantly on her. Then again, when she wasn't so disoriented from the drugs, she usually enjoyed it, so she opted to push it out of her mind for now. 

Still, she managed to wriggle her way out of the singer's grip, flashing him a quick smile. "I'm gonna go walk around for a bit," she told him. "You'll be okay without me?"

Brian chuckled. "What kind of question is that?"

She rolls her eyes before leaning in to kiss him quickly.

Pulling away, she took note of the guy in the corner, ogling them with his vacant eyes as if he were getting his own sort of peep show. 

She turned away from the voyeur, casting one last heavy-lidded glance at Brian. "Be good."

"You know I don't know how to do that." 

Bettie shook her head before stepping out into the sea of unfamiliar faces.

If nothing else, she credited herself with knowing how to work a room. 

She stopped every now and again, giggling and engaging in non-conversations with guys who couldn't keep their eyes away from the neckline of her cut-up Motley Crue t-shirt.

Though she was well aware of the attention, she didn't once indulge any of the randoms around her by responding to their innuendos. None of them had anything to offer, — she didn't recognize any of them, and they were all sort of smarmy looking. 

Not that smarmy had ever stopped her before.

After she had mingled with quite a few grungy nobodies, she found herself honing in on two familiar faces: Stephen and Brad. Flirtatious grin never leaving he face, she managed to slide her way between the two of them. 

She giggled, reaching up to muss Brad's hair at the approximate time that she threw her other arm around Stephen's shoulders. "Hey, jackasses." 

Brad's glazed eyes skimmed over Bettie's own spacey expression before he cracked a smile. 

"Whoa, Bets." He reached an arm out to steady her as she teetered slightly in her platforms. "You look like you're flying high."

"Sure am," she confirmed. "Drunk. Starting to trip a little bit... Literally and metaphorically, I guess." She leaned further into him. "Hey... have I ever told you how good-looking you are?" 

Brad's smile widened. "A few times. But I don't mind hearing it again."

Stephen groaned. "Skip the foreplay, motherfuckers," he said. "And if you're gonna get yourselves a room, at least let me know if I'm allowed in on the action." 

Shaking her head, Bettie unlatched herself from Brad, somehow managing to regain her balance. "I'm not in the mood," she stated. "Just came to see if one of you had a cigarette I could bum before I step outside. It's stuffy in here... makes me paranoid." 

Ever the faithful servant, Brad immediately reached for his pocket, extracting his mostly-emptied pack of cigarettes. He retrieved one and dropped it into Bettie's palm. "There you go." He gave her a quick wink. "Pay me back later, alright?"

Of course, she knew what that meant. "That won't be a problem," she declared before turning towards Stephen. "What about you, Pogo? Got a light?" 

Stephen eyed her dubiously. "Depends," he huffed out. "Will I be paid back, too?" 

Bettie nodded. "Oh, absolutely." 

"Sure, then."

Bettie held the cigarette out to be lit. Once it lit up, she gave them both an appreciative nod. "Thanks, boys."

With that, she placed the flaming cigarette between her teeth and headed for the back door. 

-

She didn't know exactly what time it was, but it was definitely dark. The air was warm, the scent of it carrying the slightest hint of salt. 

Bettie took a deep breath in, the smoke coming off her cigarette laced with the comfort of the fresh air. 

Her eyes fell shut. As out of her element as she had felt upon her arrival, the combination of the acid really starting to take hold and the muted party sounds coming from inside made her feel a bit more in control. 

With her eyes closed, she could easily imagine that nothing had changed. That she was still stuck in her little bubble at home, — wasting the days away, getting smashed, fucking band guys, achieving nothing, yet disappointing no one. 

It was a world where nobody expected anything from her, and she was thankful for that.

She had never expected much from herself, either.

As she opened her eyes and exhaled her puff of smoke, she mulled over what Brian had said about her taking Scott's place. 

The thought inspired two conflicting feelings within her, one much more predictable than the other.

The first feeling was excitement. 

Sure, she had learned to play a little bit of guitar when she was in the halfway house, — she had an older roommate there, a Joan Jett wannabe whose bad side Bettie had somehow managed to avoid. 

Maybe it was because she was a lesbian, so she didn't have a boyfriend Bettie could lure in, and she was clean, so she couldn't beg for her stash. 

Whatever the case, they developed something that was a bit like friendship, — and when Bettie asked her to show her some simple chords, she accepted. 

Her skills had gotten marginally better in the years that followed, especially after she began sneaking into clubs and working her way backstage. Though the guitar was her original point of focus, she had found that she was just a bit handier on the bass, — more rhythm, less fancy finger work. 

But the bass was Brad's job, and that wasn't the position Brian was offering. She just felt good that he wanted her in the band at all.

The second feeling was a bit more out of character for her. That being, a nagging sort of guilt. 

Scott wasn't a bad guitarist, by any means. In fact, Bettie knew that he was much better at it than she was. Plus, he was the one who sat down with Brian to pair lyrics to music, — something that she had never done, or even considered doing. 

At the end of the day, Brian was likely just throwing him out because of the personal squabbles that the two of them seemed to be having more and more often lately. 

Her mind came back full circle to the snide comments that Brian had made about his guitarist in confidence, most of which Bettie had laughed at until she let out an obnoxious snort. 

It wasn't that Scott was her friend. It was that the last little piece of a conscience that she had insisted that taking his job would be a real dick move. 

Of course, there was that much more powerful part of her, discounting these thoughts. 

So what? I've made plenty dick moves before now. What's stopping me this time?

As she considered this, cigarette beginning to burn out between her fingers, she heard a sound that stood out from the rest of the ruckus going on inside the house.

This sound wasn't a laugh, or a cry, or a yell of any sort. 

It didn't sound human.

In her already-anxious state, Bettie found her heartbeat quickening. It was probably in her head, really, — auditory hallucinations and all. But she couldn't help but remember the fact that she had once read about the mountain lions in California, and, should she get mauled out here, no one would hear her screams over the music she could hear bumping all the way on the back patio. 

And then she felt something bite at the back of her exposed thigh. 

She gasped, nearly jumping out of her skin as she let out a loud shout. 

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

"Well... it's certainly not the first time she's been called that." 

Heart hammering in her ears, Bettie struggled to even her breathing as she turned in the direction of the approaching voice. 

She thought she was alone out here, — but if there was someone to try and assist her in scaring away the wild cat, she figured she couldn't complain. 

Then, the guy got closer to her, and she realized that the wild cat wasn't a wild cat at all. 

In fact, it wasn't even a wild animal, but some sort of retriever puppy, and the interloper who was apparently her master was glaring at Bettie through the dark like he wanted to slaughter her.

At least, she thought that was what that look meant. 

The guy picked up the dog, who quickly settled into his grip, casting a rueful gaze up at Bettie with those stupid sad puppy eyes. 

"What the fuck is your problem?" the guy demanded, voice low and somewhat intimidating. "We've been out here, watching you stare off into space for the past five minutes. Fuck, this is my house, — so what the hell are you doing kicking my dog in the face?" 

Bettie found herself stammering like a blundering idiot in response. "I— I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know... I thought... I thought it was..."

Suddenly, the guy's face softened just slightly beneath the yellow glare of the patio light. "Holy shit," he muttered. "You're fucking gone." 

With that acknowledgement, Bettie felt some of her tension melt away. "Yeah," she agreed. "Yeah, I really am."

"Do you... should you be sitting down, or something?" Suddenly, a switch seemed to flip, taking him from ready to kick ass to full of concern. "You look like you might pass out..."

Bettie waved her hand, dismissing him. "I'm fine."

The guy remained stonefaced, seeming unconvinced. He pointed behind her. "There's a chair right there."

Though she was half tempted to argue, — arguing was like a sport to her, after all, — she was starting to feel a bit vertically challenged again. Knowing that Brad wasn't here to help her stand up straight this time, she walked over to the lawn chair and settled in. 

Once she was seated, she looked back up at this deathly serious, dog-owning, vaguely intimidating man, and opened her mouth, only to thoughtlessly let the first words that came to mind roll off her tongue. 

"I thought your dog was a cougar."

For a while, he just looked at her, not saying anything. She expected him to tell her to stand back up and get the fuck off his property. 

After a while, however, he just chuckled. Something about that madd her stomach flutter. She wasn't sure if it was relief, or just her automatic reaction to having a decent-looking male around. 

Whatever the case, his demeanor didn't seem as grim as he took the seat opposite of hers, gently placing the puppy back on the ground. Appearing uninjured, the dog scampered off. 

"You're all kinds of fucked up, huh?"

The way that he asked this didn't seem as condescending as it could have. In fact, it seemed to invite Bettie to give him a serious response. 

"Yeah," she said. "I'd say I'm pretty out there right now."

He shifts his gaze her way. He's close enough now for her to take note of his eyes, — glowing pale green under the light. "What are you even on?"

"Acid," she replies quickly. "I met this guy when I got here who told me he'd give me some good stuff if I'd suck him off."

He blinked. "And you did it?"

Bettie cocked her head to the side, fixing him with her own stern look. "Is that any of your business?"

He shrugged, causing a lock of dark hair to fall into his eyes. "I mean... no, not really..." he responded. "But you offered the information to me in the first place, and I got curious..."

"Curious?" she cut in. "Curious, why? Because you think I'm pretty?"

Though it quite possibly could have been in her head, she thought she saw his pale skin go a bit red then. "Well... that's besides the point." 

Bettie shook her head. "No, it's not," she declared. "You know why I think that you're asking?"

He fixed her with a suspicious expression, — like he was afraid she might bite him or something. "Why?"

She grinned slyly. "Because you want me to suck you off, too." 

His face went from pink to red, and she knew that she wasn't hallucinating. "What? No!" 

"No?" Bettie kept giving him that look, — so serious, like she was trying to peer inside his soul. "Isn't that the only reason you would ask in the first place?" 

He didn't respond for a moment. He averted his eyes from her, — almost like he was ashamed, — watching as the puppy gleefully sniffed and pawed around the backyard. 

Once he seemedto have regained his composure, he turned back to Bettie. "No."

"What other reasons are there, then?"

He met her eyes again, giving her a good, long look. She figured he was deciding whether or not to actually say what he was thinking.

In the end, he seemed to decide to do it anyway. 

"Because I'm wondering if that makes you feel cheap." 

Without warning, Bettie jumpes to her feet, splashing the drink she had forgotten she was holding all over her shirt.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, loud enough to make the guy jump. "You're one of those types, huh?"

Now, he was looking somewhat nauseated. "I don't—"

"Listen," she cut in, "I don't want your fucking judgement, okay? Maybe I am cheap. Maybe I am a whore. But, guess what, big guy? What I am is none of your goddamn busin—"

At this moment, the ground seemed to go slipping out fro, underneath her. She went careening forward again with a slight yelp,

She was surprised when her judgemental companion stood, breaking her fall. 

For a while, the two of them stood there in silence. Her chin was resting awkwardly on his shoulder, his arms placed carefully at her back like she might break. Despite the curses she was hurling at him just a moment ago, she found the position they had found themselves in was the closest thing to authentic intimacy that she had experienced in quite a while, leaving her chemically altered body to respond accordingly. 

When the guy spoke again, his voice was right in her ear, husky and quiet. "You're a wreck."

As much as she wished she could hate him for those words, she couldn't find the judgement in them. 

Still, she pushed him away. "You're goddamn right, I am," she said. "I knew that long before I met you, believe me."

With a sigh, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair before opening his mouth again. 

"Look," he began, "it's obvious that we are... continously getting off on the wrong foot. Why don't we start again with names?" 

He held a hand out to her. "I'm Trent. Trent Reznor." 

Reluctantly, she took his hand. It was warm and probably calloused from playing some sort of instrument and large enough to completely engulf hers and... fuck.

Hand trembling slightly, she shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Trent. I'm not going to give you my real name, but... you can call me Bettie." She huffed out a nervous laugh as she pulled her hand away, wiping it off on her jean miniskirt. "Y'know. Like Bettie Page."

Trent stared at her blankly. "You named yourself after Bettie Page?"

"Yup."

He appeared to consider this before shaking his head. 

"I don't see the resemblance."

"It's because I'm skinny as a rail," Bettie said quickly. "And I look real pretty tied up." 

Though it looked as though he was trying to bite it back, she couldn't help but notice the grin that appeared on Trent's face then. "Jesus. Do you think about anything else?"

Bettie shrugged. "Very rarely." 

"And besides indulging in your nymphomania, what do you do?"

Remembering her moral dilemma regarding Scott earlier, she responded with the first thing to cross her mind. 

"I play guitar and bass from time to time."

For the first time since she had first seen him, Trent looked genuinely impressed. "Really?"

She nodded fervently. "Uh-huh."

"Do you have a band?"

At that point, she stopped. As soon as the guilt crept back in, she pushed it out of her mind. "Not yet," she admitted, "but I'm looking." 

They returned to the quiet. 

Trent was still giving her that hard, green-eyed stare like he was really trying to figure her out, making her entire body seem to spark like she might catch fire.

Just when she thought he was about to say something, the back door burst open at an alarming velocity. 

"BETTIE!" a deep voice called. "Are you out— oh, shit." 

The door was pushed closed again, followed by the sound of shoes against the concrete. Within moments, she felt long arms wrap around her waist, long hair tickling the skin of her arms and the side of her face. She sighed, and it felt something like defeat.

"Fuck it, I was hoping to introduce the two of you this evening," Brian said. "Whatever, — looks like it's too late now. Anyway, Trent, this is Bettie... my good luck charm from Fort Lauderdale. Bettie, this is Trent, — crazy motherfucker, you know, the evil mastermind behind Nine Inch Nails..."

"Wait." Bettie stared at Trent, wide-eyed, as if she was just seeing him for the first time. "This is the guy you've been obsessing over since before I met you?" 

Brian laughed, — allowing Bettie to hear the obvious discomfort in his voice. "Well... yeah. You didn't know that?"

Bettie shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I had no fucking clue who he was." 

The silence crept up again. This time was even more uncomfortable than the last, made even worse by the introduction of a third party. 

Brian's arms left Bettie's waist, leaving him to grab her hand instead and tug. "I came to tell you that we need to kick it," he said. "It's getting late. Shit's winding down inside." 

"Okay." Loyal as always, Bettie turned on her heel, ready to follow him back inside. 

Then Trent said her name. "Bettie?"

His voice struck her like a needle hitting a vein. She turned around. "Yes?"

That solemn look never left his face as he spoke those next few words. 

"You could do better."

Bettie could have asked what he meant. Of course, she didn't. 

She just followed Brian back inside, leaving that sentiment to hang in the air until she returned the next year.


	3. 25th Parallel Magazine, August Thirteenth, Nineteen Ninety Three

Femme Fatale: An Exclusive Interview with South Florida's Hottest Bassist 

By Jake DeLuca 

It's a Saturday evening in early August. Me, and some hundred other people, are crowded onto the standing room floor at The Squeeze. The anticipation in the air is so thick you can smell it. 

The crowd waits with bated breath, the room filled with eager whispers, a sea of goths and punks and everyone in between, all with their eyes pointed towards an empty stage. Even the most clueless individual would be able to tell that something wild is about to happen.

In fact, the experience that I am about to have might be even better if I wasn't aware what was coming next.

Even though my coworkers and friends have relayed their own experiences with seeing this band to me many times before, I am still shocked when the lights come up and the show begins. 

Marilyn Manson, — known as Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids until late last year, — is a metal outfit that are threatening to give legends such as Ozzy Osbourne and Alice Cooper a run for their money. 

They shock, sure, — what with their stage decor featuring everything from Nazi propaganda to dramatized depictions of abortions, all seemingly centered around a deep distrust of the media, — but, more importantly, they rock. 

They've been a fan favorite amongst the South Florida hardcore scene for a few years now, and, finding myself in their midst for the first time, I can't help but believe the hype myself. I watch and listen with a mixture of awe and fear, not able to focus on anything except the strange figures in front of me until the lights go down and the band leaves the stage, heading off to the vehicle that their frontman affectionately refers to as The Misery Machine. 

The lineup is as follows: 

Lead vocalist/demented ringleader, the eponymous Marilyn Manson. A tall, Willy Wonka-esque figure, he commands the audience with energetic, gravelly battle cries and strangely hypersexual stage antics. Fun fact: though I know he'd likely track me down and murder me if I mentioned his real name, he is actually a 25th Parallel alum, having written for this very column just a few years prior to his startling career change. 

Guitarist Daisy Berkowitz, a wiry, lipstick-smeared guy who dresses like a character from Scooby Doo. His riffs are the driving force behind the show's energy, causing me to get jostled around in a makeshift moshpit.

Keyboardist Madonna Wayne Gacy, — or Pogo, as in, the clown. As much as Manson tries to portray himself in the light of a madman, I think that Gacy fits the bill much better, — the way that he sits behind his keyboard, rocking back and forth and sporadically twitching, makes me believe that he just might be authentically crazy. 

Drummer Sara Lee Lucas, — a dreadlocked mystery man who sits in the darker corner of the stage and beats the ever loving crap out of his drum set. Not much can be said for him, except for the fact that he can keep a decent rhythym.

And last, — but most certainly not least, — is the band's new bassist, Bettie Wuornos. 

Despite each member's feminine stage names and androgynous appearances, she is a shock to the eyes in any sense. 

That's right, — she. 

With her long blonde hair and slender build, Wuornos looks out of place amongst these hooligans. I would be convinced she had gotten horribly lost, — or maybe was being held hostage, — if she didn't play the band's impressive basslines like it was what she was put on this earth to do. 

When my eyes find her beneath the stage lights, I have trouble pulling them away.

And I am just lucky enough to get to do a feature with her, the week after the show.

-

Offstage, Bettie is less energetic and more mysteriously subdued. She sits across from me, donning Daisy Dukes and a KISS T-shirt, face free of makeup and wearing sunglasses indoors. Her rockstar getup is completed by the several cigarettes she smokes over the course of our interview. 

She is cool, — the sort of girl I longed to have notice me in high school. Because she is being paid to, I assume, she actually gives me the time of day, opening our exchange with a compliment. 

BETTIE: I like your glasses. They make you look like Elvis Costello. 

JAKE: Thanks. I like yours, too. They remind me of Corey Hart.

BETTIE: Spare me. 

JAKE: Alright, — sorry. 

I look down at my notepad, gathering my thoughts after her response to my compliment. Finally, I manage to stop feeling like an embarrassed schoolboy and get down to business. 

JAKE: So, you joined the band earlier this year. You replaced Gidget Gein, who I hear you have a history with.

BETTIE: Yeah. It's cool, though. Gidget's my best friend. 

JAKE: Well, that's nice.

BETTIE: It really is. Don't know what I'd do without that guy. I can assure you there are no hard feelings between us.

JAKE: That's great. So, let's talk about your names. They're all portmanteaus of sex symbols and murderers.

BETTIE: Indeed they are.

JAKE: So, how did you get yours?

BETTIE: Well, actually, I've been going by Bettie since I was sixteen. It's not my real name, but I picked it up after I started getting into the whole pinup thing. I fucking love Bettie Page.

She was so sexy, — and, even if it was just porn, it inspired me to see the stuff she was doing in the 50s. Women were seen as these pure little housewife, mommy figures then, — and then we have this beautiful young woman out there, whipping people and getting whipped. 

I thought it was amazing.

I wanted to push the envelope like that.

JAKE: I see. And the second part of your name, — you got it from Aileen Wuornos, correct?

BETTIE: Yup.

JAKE: And how'd that come about?

BETTIE: It was obvious, really. I mean, the story is still pretty much fresh, — she just got her death sentence, — and she's from Florida, too. Plus, she's this killer lesbian prostitute. 

Everything about it just worked, that perfect combination of sex and violence, pretty and ugly. I think I have the best name in the band, to tell you the truth.

Wouldn't you believe that it wasn't even the name Manson wanted me to use?

JAKE: It wasn't?

BETTIE: No. 

He had this really fucking stupid idea.

He wanted to call me Squeaky. 

JAKE: Why?

BETTIE: That was what Charlie Manson called one of his most loyal acolytes. 

He suggested it, and you know what I told him?

JAKE: What?

BETTIE: Absolutely fuckin' not. 

She takes a drag off her cigarette for effect, still cool as a cucumber. 

JAKE: You were that up front about it?

BETTIE: Of course I was. I'm an honest woman, Jake. 

JAKE: And how did Manson take that? I mean, he doesn't seem like the type of guy who cares too much for criticism...

BETTIE: Oh, he took it fine. He had to.

JAKE: What do you mean by that?

BETTIE: Let's put it this way. I know what he was going for. He was excited about having a girl in the band, — he could make it look like the band brainwashed me, but that was a no-can-do from me. 

I can't put on the "brainwashed" facade, even if it's for show. Because I'm not some little impressionable doll girl who can be brainwashed. 

I'm the brain, you know.

JAKE: Did you tell Manson that?

BETTIE: Yeah.

JAKE: And what did he say?

BETTIE: He said "okay" and let me keep the name I made up. Then we sat down and I started helping him write another song. 

JAKE: Wow. Sounds like he's more mild mannered than I took him for. 

BETTIE: Oh, he's far from mild mannered. It's just that he and I are tight. Best friends.

JAKE: I thought you said Gidget Gein was your best friend?

BETTIE: I have lots of best friends. Hey, — what kind of journalist are you, anyway? Ask me about my career, Jake.

JAKE: Right. Sorry.

More looking down at my notes. At this point, I figured Bettie might do better interviewing herself. 

JAKE: You said that you cowrite your songs?

BETTIE: Yes. Manson and I come up with the words, then Berkowitz and I work on the music. Most of them that we play at shows they wrote before me, but I'm bringing a little something extra to the band before we record the album.

JAKE: Any songs I'd know that you had a part in?

BETTIE: Yeah. "Cake and Sodomy." 

JAKE: Really! That's a favorite of mine!

BETTIE: Mmm-hmm. "TV fucked by plastic queen..." I came up with that part. Favorite line I've written thus far. 

JAKE: Wow. That's pretty good. 

BETTIE: Thanks. I thought so myself. 

JAKE: Sounds like you're pretty creative. 

BETTIE: I'd like to think so. 

JAKE: Aside from your work in the band, do you have any plans for any other endeavors?

BETTIE: I'm actually glad you asked. I'm working on pooling together the money to start my own label.

JAKE: Wow. 

BETTIE: I even have a name. Femme Fatale Records.

JAKE: That's a good one. Any signees in mind? 

BETTIE: Not yet. Hoping to find some when we get out to California.

JAKE: California? That's something that's in the cards?

BETTIE: Oops... Looks like I let the cat outta the bag. Yeah... We're headed to Los Angeles in just a couple weeks. We're taking our demos with us, and meeting with a very important man. 

JAKE: Well... I can't wait to hear what you guys and this mystery man come up with. But aren't you worried about selling your souls to the industry?

BETTIE: Oh, please.

We aren't selling our souls to the industry.

The industry's selling its soul to us.


	4. I sing like a good canary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut and past trauma
> 
> Chapter Title: Canary by Liz Phair

August 24, 1993

The evening before Bettie and Brian left for Los Angeles was mostly spent scrambling around the apartment. Bettie devoted a good thirty minutes to packing her bags, then another hour relaying Brian's own list of items back to him to make sure that he had packed everything he deemed essential. 

After that, they ordered a pizza, which they both picked at for a bit before they somehow found themselves getting closer and closer to one another, until Bettie was climbing into Brian's lap and sticking her tongue down his throat. 

From there, things proceeded in the way that they usually did with the two of them. So casually, they made haste in taking off one another's clothes, throwing them haphazardly across the living room before proceeding to desecrate the couch. 

Then they left the couch for the bed, and the pizza was abandoned on the coffee table without a second thought. 

To anyone else, this might have been the dream, - some cheap form of it, anyway. To Bettie, however, it was becoming a simple sort of routine. 

Though it had seemed exciting the first hundred times around, the whole process of sex was beginning to seem more and more like a bad play to Bettie these days. 

She swore that she knew every line, every move, - there was never anything new, nothing at all.

Maybe it was just the fact that she had been fucking Brian for so long that it was beginning to feel like monogamy. Though she had seen him lock himself in club dressing rooms with groupies plenty of times, and she'd had her fair share of faceless guys lined up for forgettable quickies, it always seemed to be the two of them again as soon as they went back home. 

Of course, the living together thing didn't help, but she couldn't afford to pay her own rent, and, what with writing the album, it seemed so sensible and convenient. 

The sex was purely consequential. 

As soon as they got their hands and mouths on each other, it was like they went feral, - parts of their carnal stage counterparts bleeding into reality.

On the surface, it was great, - everything Bettie had craved since she first realized how good male attention could feel. 

Both of them liked it quick and rough, which was as useful a tactic as any in pretending that they had any real sort of chemistry. The sex itself was enjoyable, - great, even. 

Still, Bettie couldn't help but feel disenchanted with the fact that she knew the order of operations like the back of her hand. 

It always went the same way.

Act one: he started with pushing her back down into the mattress, which always seemed to squeal its complaints. Then he grabbed her wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them to the wall above the bed, leaning down to whisper something completely unromantic into her ear. The exact line always varied.

"Oh, little girl," he said this time, voice turning into that growl that was just a bit lower than it was when he performed. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you won't be able to walk through the terminal tomorrow." 

Bettie leaned forward, kissing him hard and deep, biting down on his bottom lip like she was out for blood. "Do it, then," she challenged him. "But don't call me 'little girl.' That's not what I am." 

He laughed. "What are you, then?" 

He pulled back before she could answer, looking at her with fire in his dark eyes, - predator eyeing prey. When he finally tore his eyes away from her, he let out a shaky sigh.

"Jesus, Bets. You're so..."

"Shut up, Brian." 

Act two: they got on with it. This is where it always seemed to become even more mechanical, the motions that they went through just as choreographed as all the shit that they did on stage. 

Neither of them ever spoke a word. Anything that they might have wanted to say was expressed through actions.

It wasn't tender, and neither of them wanted it to be. They were on the same wavelength there, - it was so much more fitting to treat it as if it were a bloodsport. 

She clawed at his back as if she were furious at him for existing. He let go of her arms, moving his hand down to squeeze her hip, thigh, throat. They sunk their teeth into one another, biting into necks and lips. Each of them always seemed to be hellbent on leaving a mark on one another, in spite of the fact that they didn't belong to each other, - at least, not in the traditional, socially accepted sense. 

This was Bettie's favorite part. It overwhelmed her, - that delicious muddling of pleasure and pain, passion beneath the hands of someone who she found herself feeling more or less apathetic towards at the end of the day. 

When she stripped away all the unspoken feelings that made this less fun each time, she could admit something to herself: in truth, this feeling almost made it all worth it. 

Act three: the crescendo. 

She drew in a stuttering breath, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist as her eyes screwed shut. To keep from crying out his name, - she didn't want to say anything, not a word, - she sunk her teeth into his shoulder, muffling the scream that forced its way up her throat as she shook violently beneath him. 

For a moment, her mind was quiet. As soon as she started coming down, though, everything came rushing back. For what seemed like the millionth time, her mind ran in circles.

She wondered why she let herself do this with him, just like she wondered why she did it with Pogo and Freddy and the guy at Trent's party and that very first guy and every one of them, really, except for maybe Brad. 

She knew it wasn't about feeling good, - she could do that on her own, without all the regret that came afterwards. 

She knew it wasn't about love, if anything like that even existed. She didn't love Brian, - in fact, if anything, she was only tolerating him most of the time.

Even now, when he was on top of her, panting as he drove into her harder. 

"That's it," he rasped. "Come for me. So fuckin' good... Fuck, Bettie... you're such... a little... whore..." 

Those last words set off something in her, - snapshots flashing through her mind like an old silent film, filling her with dread. She bit down on her tongue, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to break through. 

Not now, she thought. Wait until later. 

Once she had regained what little composure she had left, she let out a shaky puff of breath and gave up on the no words thing, doing her best to play the part of who he wanted her to be.

"Please," she whined. "Brian... please, please, please..." 

Please just fucking finish.

And finally, with a deep groan, he did spilling inside of her. Only then does she feel relief, - knowing that was it, they were done, at least until they got to Le Pig and he wanted her again. 

He stilled, laying on top of her for a little while longer, - a weight she could pretend was something else, someone else, anything else. 

Then he pulled out with a grunt, flopping over onto the left side of the bed. He didn't even look at her when he spoke again, - his eyes were focused on the ceiling, where he'd taped up all those stupid fucking horror movie posters. 

"Sorry about forgetting the rubber," he said. "You're still on the pill, right?" 

Bettie cleared her throat, managing to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. "Yeah," her voice crackled out. "I'm gonna go clean up a bit." 

Act five: the finale.

She locked the bathroom door, all alone again, - finally. The first thing she did was walk over to the shower, leaving the water near icy. 

She felt like she needed a shock, something to remind her where she was, who she was, who she was going to return to when she came back to bed. 

She wasn't Amelia anymore, - not that lost little girl, not her mother's daughter. Brian wasn't her first John, or her second, or her thirtieth. He wasn't paying her to fuck him, but to play in his band, to try and make something of herself after all those years. 

She wasn't a whole person, no. But she could do a damn good job at pretending.

She managed to stand up, leaving her spot atop the closed toilet lid without fainting.

She stood under the cold spray of the shower, clapped a hand over her mouth, and allowed herself a place to quietly sob.


	5. the noise just went away

August 25, 1993

It was like waking up for a field trip. Well, except for the presence of her bandmate-slash-fuckbuddy, passed out next to her, and the fact that her morning routine included getting one last good hit of coke before feeling ready to take on the day. But other than that, Bettie was a kid in school again, immediately jumping out of bed and into her clothes before the sun was anywhere close to rising. 

Her bags were already packed, jeans and a T-shirt laid out. She stopped in the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair. She inspected her reflection quickly, — she looked tired, but that wasn't an unusual occurrence.

She was rather certain that she had only gotten about four hours of sleep. 

Without thinking twice, she yanked open the second bathroom drawer. She had to sift through a good amount of junk, — stage makeup, condoms, empty soap boxes, — before finally locating the baggie in the very back. 

She didn't think to ask for permission for a single second, measuring out a small portion of it by memory. Yeah, she knew Brian had bought the stuff, but she lived here, too, and it was just a little bit. Maybe this was somewhere in the fine print of 'mi casa es tu casa.'

After locating the dollar that Brian kept with his supply, — a functional druggie, Bettie noted, — she leaned over the bathroom counter and breathed in deep, allowing the high that soon came rushing towards her to wake her up. 

Just as soon as she pulled away and wiped her nose, the bathroom door swung open. 

She froze as she caught sight of Brian in the mirror. He stood in the doorway, expressionless. Memories of Brad's abrupt exile from the Spooky Kids went flashing through her mind, making her stomach turn. 

She'd spent the night before he was kicked out biting her fingernails down into the quick, thinking that he was surely done for this time. When the news of his resuscitation reached the band, Bettie was relieved. Brian didn't seem so thrilled.

"There's nothing worse than a fucking junkie," he spat. "Can't fucking stand them."

Amd so Bettie went to the hospital the next day, tasked with delivering the bad news. She sat at Brad's bedside, holding his hand as he forced down the cafeteria food the nurse had brought out for him. 

Bettie grimaced, wanting so badly to go ahead and rip off the Band-Aid, get the whole thing over with. So she did.

"Brad?" she asked.

Brad abandoned his Jell-O cup for a moment, turning to meet her eyes. "Yeah, Bets?"

She attempted to swallow back the sick feeling rising in her throat before forcing the words up. "Brian says that the overdose was the final straw. He wants you out of the band." 

For a moment, his face looked just as washed out and blank as the white hospital wall. Then, he let out a wry chuckle.

"Yeah," he said. "I figured that was probably coming."

That was the last time she had seen Brad in person, — pale and sickly beneath a white sheet, brought back from death just to be dismissed. 

The situation made some part of her ache. She missed Brad. It didn't matter what drugs he was doing, or the lengths he had gone to in order to get them, — Bettie could rely on him to listen, to understand, to be an actual friend. He knew her mind just as well as he knew her body, — maybe even better. He was fucked up, sure, but Bettie didn't mind that at all. 

If anything, it was part of why he was the only person to understand her. 

And what did she end up doing for him?

She left the hospital and took his job. 

In truth, if she thought about it long enough, she felt bad. Probably worse than she even thought she might feel when she was scheduled to take Scott's place instead. 

Brad was sick, and so was she. She understood that, and she still accepted Brian's offer to join the band. Survival of the fittest, the majority of her brain insisted. 

Now, caught red handed with Brian's drugs, she figured that maybe karma had finally caught up with her. 

"Move over," Brian told her. 

She relaxed, stepping aside. Suddenly, all thoughts of Brad left her head as she chanced another snort, taking the dollar back from Brian when he handed it to her.

Once both of them were both close to flying, his eyes met hers. Despite his blown pupils, she could still see the edge in his glare. "Ask me next time," he told her.

She nodded before turning her eyes towards the floor.

-

At six AM, Stephen pulled up in the driveway, honking his horn several times in quick succession before rolling down the window. "Come on, people, let's go!" he called. "I don't have all day!"

"Coming, coming!" Bettie threw the front door open. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she hurried down the steps, barely managing not to trip over her feet and fall onto her ass. 

Bettie reached the car, walking around to place her luggage in the trunk. 

"Well, good morning, Bettie!" Stephen greeted as she opened the hatchback. "No bra today, I see."

She scoffed, pushing her back down. "Fuck off." With that, she slammed the trunk and walked around to the backseat, sliding in.

Scott turned around in the passenger seat, giving her a gentle smile. "Hey, Bettie," he said quietly.

Bettie couldn't help but smile back at him. "Morning, Scott." 

Stephen laid onto the horn once more before leaning out the window. "Come on, Manson!" he yelled. "We're gonna fucking leave you if you don't hurry your ass up!" 

"Hold the fuck on!" 

"Oooh... sounds like somebody's on the rag." Stephen snickered before turning around to face Bettie. 

"Hey, Bets," he said. "You and Brian fuck last night?"

Though she tried her hardest not to give herself away, she felt her face burst into flames immediately. "Since when is that any of your business?"

Clearly, Stephen took either her evasiveness or bright red face as an affirmative answer. He burst into a fit of howling laughter, slapping his knee. 

"I fucking knew it!" he cried. "You waddled on out here... walking like a duck..." 

Bettie bit the side of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, trying to decide whether she wanted to burst into tears again or jump over the seat to kick Pogo's face in. 

Before she could decide, Scott spoke up. "Aw, come on, Pogo," he said, pity dripping from his voice. "Lay off." 

Scott's defense seemed to cool Bettie's face off some. She decided that laughing the whole thing off would probably be the best option.

"Yeah, Pogo. Lay off," she echoed, followed by a high-pitched giggle that hardly even sounded like her own voice. So fake.

In order to release a bit of the fury still rising inside her, she kicked the back of Stephen's seat as hard as she could. The impact of her combat boot was enough to make the whole car rattle.

Clearly, Stephen felt that. "Shit, Bets," he cursed as they lurched forward. "Seems like everybody woke up with a stick in their ass this morning..." 

"Who woke up with what in their ass?"

The car door swung open, then closed again. Brian slid into the seat next to Bettie, wearing a shit-eating grin. 

Stephen turned around to look at him, smirking. "Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," he said. "I understand your foul mood a bit better now. The morning after can be a bit rough." 

Bettie clenched her fist. 

Luckily, to avoid adding insult to injury, Brian didn't laugh. "Worry about your own sex life, Pogo," he said, "or lack thereof."

"Not a problem." Stephen shifted the car into reverse, backing out into the morning fog. 

Scott turned around. "We brought coffee," he announced before reaching into his lap, extracting two styrofoam McDonald's cups. He handed one to Bettie, then the other to Brian. "One for you... and one for you."

"Thanks, Scott."

"Yeah. Thanks, jerkoff."

Despite her likely already-racing pulse, Bettie brought her cup to her lips with trembling hands. 

For a while, she was able to savor the moment. No one was talking, — all she could hear was the faint sound of the radio, having been turned down for the commercial break, though she could still make out the sound of a woman reading the traffic report. 

The morning fog had mostly cleared, revealing what was looking to be an overcast morning. The windows fogged up with the humidity as they stopped at a traffic light. As they waited, Stephen drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and muttering to himself, fat raindrops began to fall, hitting the window. 

Bettie had lived in south Florida long enough to know how these rainy summer days generally felt, — absolutely disgusting. Still, it brought her some odd sense of comfort watching the rain slide down the window, — one last good taste of home before she flew across the country, making an unfamiliar place her home for the next however-many months.

For one last moment, things were the same as they had always been. The weather was nasty, Scott was turning the radio back up, humming along to "Video Killed the Radio Star," Stephen was slapping at his hand and turning the radio to another channel, cursing like a sailor all the while. 

She turned from the window back to Brian then, looking at him as he sipped his coffee. He was looking out his own window, seeming to be somewhere deep in thought, — not looking at her first for once. 

A strange feeling rose up in Bettie's chest.

There was something about the way she felt about Brian.

Most of the time, she figured it would be easiest to say that she hated his guts, that they just worked together and sometimes screwed to get rid of the tension and that was it.

In some ways, that was accurate. 

She certainly didn't like him very much. 

He wasn't really a great person, but then again, neither was she. They were both pretty mean-spirited people, in truth, spitting venom at nearly everyone they knew in one another's company, although they surely did the same thing when it came to each other as soon as their backs were turned. 

If they were friends, they were of the fairweather variety.

But there was still that nagging feeling, lying below the surface, something that she felt when he wasn't talking to her, when he was gone, when he was asleep and she was lying awake next to him. 

It was in these moments, when everything was quiet enough for her to really think, that Bettie remembered how things were when they first met.

As soon as Stephen introduced the two of them, she was drawn to him. He shook her hand, muttered his name, then returned to his drink. He hid behind his hair until he was drunk enough to speak up, after which he engaged her in a very in-depth conversation about current politics, — and by God, she liked him then. 

Just as she did when all of them used to bum around the mall together, smoking and eating junk food and loitering around all the useless stores all day. Just as she did when she forced him to dance with her at the goth club that night, poking fun at how gangly and awkward he was. Just as she did after the first real Spooky Kids show, when he ran outside and puked his guts out in the parking lot of nerves, after which she patted him on the back and told him that the people loved him in there. 

She remembered with a pang that they all used to be friends, before this band thing started getting real, before things changed. 

She thinks back to those days, the very beginning. 

She had been sixteen then, — too jaded to still be a child, too naive to equate to her adult self. 

She wasn't innocent, — three years prior, she'd been on the street, trying to make another sale off her time and attention. 

But there was some light left in her that had left in those years somehow. 

Back then, she saw a lot more good in people. 

Now, she sat in the back of Stephen's car, wondering exactly what the fuck happened to make things change. 

The light turned green. Stephen let off the brake, allowing the car to move forward. 

Brian turned away from the window and pulled away from his coffee.

"Hey, Bettie?" he murmured.

Bettie jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. "Yeah?" she hissed back. 

"Thanks for doing a bump with me this morning," he said. "I needed it. Plus, we couldn't exactly sneak that past the security guards, could we?"

She shook her head, feeling foolish for even considering that he could be talking to her about anything else in the world. " guess not." 

-

Both of them got past security without a problem. They had bid Scott and Stephen adieu outside, — "see you in a week or so," Scott promised, — before taking their bags in.

An otherwise-disinterested security guard cocked his eyebrow as the two of them reached the gates. Bettie suspected that he was probably looking more at Brian than herself, — a quick glance showed her that he'd dressed as if he were about to perform, striped tights and all. 

Brian gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Nothing to see, sir."

Bettie piped up then. "Unless you want to strip-search us," she purred. 

That seemed to shock the guard back to reality. "That won't be necessary." He ran the metal detecting wand over both of them before waving them through. 

As soon as they were out of earshot, both of them burst into a fit of laughter. 

"You really laid it on thick, Bets."

"Hey, — you never know. I thought I was going to have the good fortune of finding myself in a Goth-security guard sandwich." 

"Well, not today, I guess."

They boarded the plane, finding their seats. To Bettie's relief, Brian took the window seat without asking.

She sucked in a deep breath. "Jesus Christ, do I hate flying," she said as she settled into her seat. 

"Get used to it," Brian said. "It's going to be all you ever do after a while."

Bettie groaned. "I hope not." 

She untucked the Alternative Press magazine she had carried along with her from under her arm, flipping through until she found an article that caught her eye. Finally, she stopped. 

There was the face that had stared her down at the party that night. The guy she tried to put the moves on, high out of her mind. The guy who told her she could do better, — whatever the hell that meant. 

"Hey, look." She tapped a blue-painted fingernail against the page. "It's your boyfriend, Bri." 

Brian scoffed, snatching the magazine from her hands. "Fuck off," he said. "I saw the way you were looking at him at the party last year. You're projecting."

Bettie grabbed the magazine back. "I was high," she said. "And, clearly, looking at you, I can see that I don't have the greatest taste, anyway." 

"Whatever." Brian turns back to the window. "I hope we don't end up having a kid behind us. That'd fucking suck." 

"You fucking suck."

"Haha... real mature." 

Within fifteen minutes, the flight had been boarded and was taking off. She tried to read for a while, only to find that the turbulence in combination with her still-prevalent buzz made it next to impossible to focus. 

She saw the empty bathroom, considered proposing to Brian that they join the Mile High Club, then remembered how the night before made her feel and decided against it.

She did check over to see how her seatmate was doing, however, only to find him completely engrossed in his Walkman. 

She elbowed him lightly, causing him to take out one earphone.

"What are you listening to?" she asked. 

Brian winced, handing her one of the earbuds. "Our demo." 

Wordlessly, she took the earphone, listening to the song the rest of the way through. Once it ended, she handed the earphone back to him. "That's not what we were going for,"s she said decisively.

"It's really not," he agreed. He stopped, holding the earbud for a moment before speaking up again. 

"Trent will do better with it," he said. "I know he will."

Bettie laughed. "Okay, loverboy."

Brian plugged back into his earphones, listening to the recording intently. 

Meanwhile, Bettie just laid her head back and closed her eyes, — not sleeping, but simply considering the fact that the ground was so far away from her, much too far to touch, most of the world that she had known already far, far behind her.


	6. dog new tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The goth bf arrives

Five hours after their departure, the plane finally touched down. At that point, Bettie was irritated, itching to get out and move around.

She was too wired to rest, and bored, too. All there was to do was watch the people milling around her: parents pulling around snotty-nosed, tantrum-throwing brats, old perverts making eyes at the stewardesses, a sort of cute business type guy who did nothing but frown down at the folder in his lap the entire flight.

The stewardess stopped by. Bettie paid her for a Coca-Cola, drained it, then ordered another.

By the time the plane landed, she was developing a headache, (some kid started screaming his head off during the last hour and hadn't stopped,) still exhausted in spite of her caffeine intake and the quick fix from before she left, and she had to piss really bad. All in all, she was rather irritated, and not quite feeling like jumping into recording music right away.

Yet, that seemed to be Brian's exact plan, judging by the way he was running his mouth on the cab ride to Trent's place.

"It's gonna be fucking great," he declared. "We're gonna fix everything that's wrong with it. When it comes out, nobody's gonna know what the fuck just hit them..."

Germs be damned, Bettie leaned her head against the cold window of the cab. "Mmm-hmm," she hummed.

Brian was still talking, but Bettie tuned him out, - that was becoming a real talent of hers. She closed her eyes, though the sun was still burning too bright even when she couldn't see.

All at once, she somehow managed to feel antsy and drained. Maybe she was on the verge of some sort of crash, - perhaps she shouldn't have taken any of Brian's coke that morning after all. Or maybe she was having second thoughts, just a bit too late.

The last time she had been in Los Angeles, she stayed in her hotel room for most of her waking hours. She and Brad bunked together, which led to a day that consisted of room service, a brief conversation regarding the show the guys were supposed to play that night, then hours upon hours making a mess of the hotel bed, Do Not Disturb sign posted proudly on the door.

By the time they finally piled into the Misery Machine and headed to the venue, it was dark. At night, Bettie could barely tell the difference between LA and any of the other cities she'd been to, - as long as she was hidden away in the dark, she felt like she belonged just fine.

She wasn't trying to make anything of herself then, though.

Now, in the daylight, everything seemed so different, - different enough to make her stomach churn.

Beneath the harsh sunshine, she could see just how big the city was, - big, and glittering, and dirty. The kind of place that could swallow people up like a huge chasm  
in the ground, leaving no one to bat an eye in their absence.

Brian viewed their arrival as some type of good omen, - a sign that they had made it.

Bettie just figured it was a place that girls like her went to die unremarkable deaths.

She forced her eyes open then, making a silent promise to herself, - one promise that she would hopefully be able to keep.

 _Whenever_ _I_ _go out, I'll do it in style._

Suddenly, the wheels seemed to stop turning beneath her. She felt Brian jab a bony elbow into her side. "Bettie, - _Bets._ Wake the fuck up, - we're _here."_

Bettie groaned, - no, growled, - as she sat up straight. "Hold your fuckin' horses, Brian..."

"I'm not gonna hold mine," the cab driver interjected, voice gruff with cigarette smoke. "So stop bitching and pay your fare."

"Yeah, yeah, one second..."

As soon as Brian came up with the necessary money, the two of them were out on the street. The cab driver went on his merry way with a puff of exhaust-scented smoke. Brian held a middle finger up to him as a farewell. "Fuck you! Go suck a dick!"

He turned to Bettie, laughing, only for his smile to fade away. "Come on, Bets," he said. "Why aren't you doing anything?"

Bettie just shook her head in response. "Let's just get our asses inside."

Dragging her suitcase behind her, Bettie led the way to the door. Her head was pounding, like it might explode. She winced, leaning against the front of the house as she pressed the doorbell. Come to think of it, she wasn't even sure what she was going to do when she got inside. She supposed she was probably supposed to talk business, or at least make nice with the band's new producer, but all she really wanted to do was crash somewhere soft.

Judging by his success thus far, she figured Trent could probably afford furniture that wasn't from a thrift store, which was more than she could say for herself. That would be a nice taste of luxury, if nothing else, — not having a spring pokeing her in the back whenever she wanted to take a nap.

Just as soon as her eyes fell closed again, the door swung open. She startled back into an upright position, eyes wide and wild as they fell onto the man standing in the doorway.

There he was, looking just like he did on the pages of the magazine she was holding a few hours earlier. Trent didn't smile at them, didn't say anything, — just stared with blank green eyes, awkwardly leaning against the doorframe. A tapping sound fell on Bettie's ears. She looked down to see Trent's combat boot hitting the floor rhythmically, impatiently.

He cleared his throat, causing her to look back up  
at his face. With that, he stepped aside, clearing the doorway for the two of them. "Come in."

Wordlessly, Bettie stepped over the threshold, heading into the living room. She could hear Brian still blathering on as the door closed behind her, — kissing ass, as she had expected. "Trent. Good to see you again, man..."

She didn't stop to join in on the conversation, — she was in a terribly foul mood with nothing to say, in desperate search of a bathroom.

The sound of barking broke her focus. A large golden dog circled her legs, sniffing curiously. Reluctantly, Bettie held her hand out for the dog to sniff. She'd never been an animal person, but she wanted the thing to leave her alone so she could go about her business.

The dog pressed its nose into her palm before backing away. Ears pinned back, it let out a low growl.

Bettie pulled her hand away. _Well_ _, then,_ she thought. _Fuck you, too, dog._

"Maise." More thudding of boots against the floor. A large hand came to rest against the dog's head. Content, the retriever leaned into its master's touch, tail beginning to wag.

Bettie looked from the dog to Trent. He didn't look so expressionless now, — instead, he was grinning, looking genuinely amused. "Sorry about that," he said. "Seems she's like an elephant. She doesn't forget."

Bettie furrowed her brow. Her brain was so cloudy, — not a single thing in this fucking house made sense to her. "Doesn't forget what?"

Smile fading from his face, Trent's eyes connected with hers. "Girls who've kicked her in the face."

Face burning, Bettie's mind flashed back to that night the year before. Her head was swimming with substances then, too, the ground feeling as though it were close to slipping out from beneath her as she met those very same green eyes in the dark. _I thought your dog was a cougar._

She sighed, opting not to acknowledge that statement. Instead, she asked the question that was currently weighing heavy on her mind: "Do you have a bathroom somewhere?"

"Yeah." He pointed down the hall. "Over there on the right."

"Thanks." She abandoned her suitcase, heading down the hallway without a second thought. Slamming the bathroom door behind her, she stopped in front of the mirror. Taking note of her bloodshot eyes, she turned on the faucet, cupping her hands to catch ice cold water to throw onto her face.

Once again, she found herself staring at her washed out reflection. Despite the fact that she looked dead, she forced herself to smile. It looked genuine enough, she figured.

She turned the faucet off, turning away from the mirror.

 _That's_ _how_ _I'll get by here,_ she decided. _I can fake it like the best of them._

-

The first act of business was letting Trent listen to the demo. The three of them, plus the dog, sat in the living room as the tape blared at top volume from the soundsystem.

For the duration of the recording, nobody spoke. Bettie sat on the opposite side of the sofa from Brian. Despite the noise, she was still struggling to keep her eyes open. Something about the situation left her despondent.

Maybe it was because she wasn't the one playing on the demo, — that had all been Brad, back when he figured he'd get to make the trip to California with them. In the eight months that had passed since then, Bettie had become familiar with those very same basslines, — even tweaked them a bit herself, — but listening to them just wasn't enough to keep her engaged.

There seemed to be a disconnect between her and the music, — she was much more content to block it out, letting her eyes scan the various facets of Trent's house from her spot on the couch.

Though the late summer sun was still beating down, it was dark inside, — black curtains blocked out any semblance of natural light, leaving it unclear to her exactly what time of day it was. Maybe that was Trent's intention, to stay holed up in there, absolutely dead to the world, completely absorbed in his work.

The studio was just down the hall. She'd walked past it on her way back from the bathroom, stopping to peer inside. It seemed Trent was more forgiving when it came to the view into his studio, — she could see everything through a glass screen, a supply of instruments and electronic equipment so large that just looking at it made her dizzy.

She looked down at all the knobs and dials on the soundboard, knowing that she'd play in that very same room at some point, have her work picked apart until it was ready to be sold. Only then did the reality of the situation really sink in for her, — she was in a band with a record deal, living in one of the most important cities on the planet, about to record an album with one of the industry's up-and-coming artists.

She continued to mull it over as the demo played on. It was all so surreal, like something out of a vaguely disturbing dream, right down to the old blood smeared on the wall. She was surprised that whoever was in charge of this place had left that aspect visible, — but there it was, plain as day. Once she caught sight of it, she couldn't look away, eyes scanning over those crudely written letters again and again.

_PIG._

A loud click startled her back to the task at hand. She jumped in her seat, only to realize that the tape had come to an end.

With a sigh, Trent stood up from his seat, crossing the room to take the cassette out of the deck. Bettie and Brian watched with rapt attention as he pressed the button to eject the tape, then looked at it, wearing an expression that Bettie couldn't quite put a label on.

Finally, he looked over at the two nervous musicians on his couch and opened his mouth. "I'm gonna be honest."

"Go ahead," Brian piped up. Bettie cut her eyes in his direction, — surely enough, he was looking at Trent with the same adoration as the dog that laid at his feet. "Let us have it. Won't hurt our feelings."

Bettie groaned, leaning against her elbow. "Jesus, you make me sick," she said. "I didn't even have to kiss Axl Rose's ass that much to get him to fuck me. And that's saying something."

Somebody chuckled. Judging by the death glare Brian was casting in Bettie's direction, she didn't figure it had been him.

When she looked back at Trent, he had his head down, black hair falling over his face as he examined the tape in his hands. Finally, he looked back up at them. "Frankly, I think this sucks."

"Well," Bettie said. "That's real nice."

"Good news is, it's not your fault. At least not completely." He sat the tape down haphazardly, as if he couldn't bear to touch it anymore. "The production is the problem. It makes you guys sound like some shitty garage rock band." He looked between them then, that same deathly serious look on his face. "You don't want that, do you?"

Bettie laughed. "Of course not," she said. "If we had, we would've released that version..."

Brian eyed her, his jovial demeanor from earlier seeming to be long gone. "You mean the version that you weren't on?"

Bettie blinked, considering how she was supposed to respond to that question. He had sounded so... bitter.

"Yes," she finally said. "I do. Although I hardly think that Brad was the..."

"This isn't you?" Trent interrupted her, picking the tape back up.

Bettie glanced back at Brian, only to see him smirking. She realized that he had backed her into some kind of corner then. Her blood seemed to boil in her veins as she responded. 

"No," she said pointedly. "That was Br— _Gidget._ You might have met him, — he came to your party last year. Raggedy Ann looking guy." She smiled, feigning sweetness as she rested a hand on Brian's leg. "This absolute sweetheart over here had me kick him out the day after he overdosed."

Brian shot her another sharp glare.

Trent, for the most part, just looked uncomfortable. There he went again, tapping the toe of his boot on the ground. "Oh. Well... Have you not recorded any, Bettie?"

The antsy feeling that had been plaguing her since she got off of the plane rose back up. She was going to kill Brian. Strangle him to death with her bare hands.

Still, she figured she ought to be honest. "No," she replied. "But I've played a bunch of shows, and I catch on quickly..."

Trent laughed in a way that suggested condescension rather than humor. "Shows are different," he said. "You have more room to make mistakes."

Bettie's face burned. She dug her fingers into the couch cushion. "I don't make too many mistakes," she said. At that point, honesty had flown out the window.

Trent smiled, and now there were two men who Bettie wanted to choke. "We'll have to see about that."

With that, he whistled for the dog, who quickly rose to her feet. He didn't look back at the two of them as he headed down the hallway. "Speaking of which," he said, "you guys wanna check out the studio?"

"Sure." Just as Bettie expected, Brian jumped up without the slightest hint of hesitation. Within seconds, he was at Trent's heels, leaving Bettie bristling on the sofa. "Wanna come, Bets?"

"I'm good," Bettie called back to him. She moved up the couch, stretching her legs out in front of her as her head landed on a pillow. "I think I need to rest for a while. The flight wore me out."

"Alright, then." She heard a door close. Just like that, they were gone.

Eyelids growing heavy, Bettie focused on the blood on the wall until everything went black, falling into the deepest sleep she'd experienced in years.


	7. sexual tension but mostly tension

The motel bed was more comfortable than any Bettie had slept in before. Then again, it was the middle of the day, and she wasn't exactly sleeping. 

Instead, she was straddling her best friend, - not my boyfriend, she reminded herself, - kissing him as if they were the last two people on Earth. 

It was sleazy, she knew, but sleazy was part of her makeup as a person. She was perfectly content to be making out with Brad as cable porn played at a low volume in the background. The double bed below them was likely stained by endless other unions, consummations and casual encounters alike. 

She yelped as she suddenly found her back pressed into the mattress. Brad was on top of her now, laughing that stupid stoner laugh of his. Bettie playfully wriggled beneath him, a futile attempt to escape. "What the fuck?" she whined. "How'd you even do that? You're so tiny..."

He leaned down, pressing his lips against her neck. Against her own will, Bettie found herself gasping, - all those girls who came backstage must have taught him something about how to make a girl weak in the knees. 

She let out a breathy moan, and he pulled away, blue eyes gleaming. "You don't tell a guy that he's tiny right before you fuck him, you know."

She froze, staring up at the spotted motel ceiling, realizing that it had finally come down to this with him, too. Meaningless fucking, someone who was constantly around for some guy to use. It was no different with him than it was with Stephen or Freddy, and she shouldn't have wanted it to be. Because she was Bettie, - she was sleazy and she was cheap. 

The guys that she fucked before she met the Spooky Kids and the girls she lived with at the group home had always whispered about her, called her a slut and a whore and a cumdumpster, and they had been right, she always knew they were right. That's just who she was. 

But when she looked into Brad's eyes again, she felt that slip away. She felt like someone else, someone different, and that made her feel both empty and free. 

It made her feel relieved, then it scared her half to death. Because Brad was looking at her like she couldn't recall any of them looking at her. He was so cute, and he was so stupid, and she still wasn't sure that he'd caught on to who she was, what she was, but then his tongue was on that spot on her neck again and it didn't matter. 

His hands moved down her sides, fell at the bottom of her T-shirt. He lifted it up, - she managed to get her arms free so she could help him pull it off. Then he was looking down at her nearly-bare skin, her sorry excuse for a bra, - the top to some old bikini she'd lost the bottom half of, - and he was breathing her chosen name in a way she'd never heard it. 

"Bettie."

For once, she found herself not wanting to rush through a single moment of this whole song and dance that had been too familiar for too long. Each new step he took was a place they'd never gone with each other before, - the way his breath hitched when she reached to unbutton his jeans, the way he pulled her underwear off in one quick swipe, the way he worked his fingers in a manner that would leave her blushing every time she watched him play bass from now on. 

It didn't just feel good. It felt right, like it was exactly what they were supposed to be doing, and she couldn't ever remember a time when sex felt like that. 

All she knew was that she liked Brad's hands and she loved his voice, each whisper of her name making her dizzier and dizzier, leaving her to close her eyes and try to commit this moment to memory as he repeated it like a broken record.

"Bettie... Bettie... Bettie..." 

-

"Bettie?" 

With a gasp, Bettie startled upright. For a moment, she was disoriented, - she couldn't place this dark room she was in, or the feeling of the fabric underneath her. Then things started falling into place, - she remembered the night before, not with Brad, but with Brian, who she had flown to LA with the next morning. 

She remembered arriving at Trent's house, the dog growling at her, listening to the demo. Then Brian followed Trent into the studio and she passed out cold. 

And now, she could just barely see Trent through the dark. "Jesus," he said. "You sleep like the dead." 

"What time is it?" Bettie hissed back. 

He was quiet for a moment before offering an answer. "Four-fifteen."

"AM?" Bettie asked incredulously. 

"Mmm-hmm." 

"And you're waking me up why?" 

"Because you've been asleep since four PM."

"Yeah, well, I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in over a month..." 

"Well, I haven't gotten a full night's sleep since I was about fifteen. Get up." 

"Why?" 

"I want you to see the studio." 

"At four in the morning?" 

"You didn't look at it yesterday. Everything's quiet right now."

With a sigh, Bettie stood up. Squinting through the dark, she continued to express her displeasure. "I don't remember waking me up at ungodly hours being part of the deal..." 

"Deals are full of surprises. You really don't have much life experience, do you?" 

Bettie frowned, though she knew Trent couldn't see her. She didn't like the way he seemed to be making assumptions about her, — he didn't know the first thing about who she was, where she came from. Only two or three people in the world, counting herself, knew that much. 

"I have more life experience than you could ever imagine, asshole," she spat. "So don't even try it. The fact that you've released an album doesn't make you king of the fucking world." She paused, took a deep breath, attempted to compose herself. It really was too early for this. 

Once she felt like she wasn't at risk of attacking him, she found the nerve to speak again, voice still sharp despite her attempts at keeping a more level tone. "Now, could you be a dear and turn on a light? I can't see anyth—"

Something caught her foot, causing her to go careening forward mid-sentence. 

Either to her relief or dismay, — she couldn't quite decide, — she fell backwards, into Trent's grip. Bettie stayed there for a while, frozen, her back to his chest. She needed a second to breathe, to recover from all this, because if he flipped that light on, she knew he'd see how red her face was turning. He would probably mistake it for bashfulness, when really she was drowning in some combination of humiliation and fury. 

More than anything, she just wanted to go back to sleep. Maybe all of this would be just a bit more tolerable in the daylight hours. 

"Seems like this is becoming a pattern."

As soon as Trent spoke, Bettie wriggled out of his grip, righting herself again. "That's it," she said. "Where's the fucking light?"

"Jesus, relax. It's over here." 

He said it so plainly, like she should have known perfectly well where over here was. She heard the telltale 'click' of the lightswitch, and the hallway filled with warm, — albeit still dim, — light. And in the middle of it, there was Trent, — just looking at her with this guarded, non-expression on his face, like he was thinking really hard about something that she'd never be able to make sense of. 

For a while, that's all they did, — just stared each other down, seeming to silently dare each other to break the silence first. 

Patience already worn thin, Bettie crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you showing me the studio or not?"

"Fine." The next thing she knew, Trent was walking right past her, footsteps suddenly seeming to fall much heavier than before. "It's this way." 

She followed him until they reached the same dark glass screen she had walked past earlier. He opened the door, and she trailed him inside, closing it behind them as quietly as she could. God knows the last thing she needed was Brian to wake up and manage to make this interaction at least twenty times worse, as was his way. 

Trent flipped on another light. Bettie blinked, trying to take it all in. 

If the rest of the house was surprisingly small and... normal, the studio surpassed her expectations. It looked official, of course, with all the equipment strewn about, but there was also something about it that seemed strangely foreboding. Maybe it was the gray walls, or the fact that it was strangely cold when the living room had been warm, or just the fact that she was alone in there with a stranger at four in the morning, but all the energy that Bettie had imagined a murder house might contain seemed to be contained solely within the studio. Though she didn't fancy herself superstitious, something about it left her crossing her arms tighter around herself, fighting off a shiver. 

"Your thoughts?" She jumped at the sound of Trent's voice, — it seemed like noise just echoed off the walls here.

"It's impressive," she admitted. "Looks like someone put a lot of work into it." 

"I did." Bettie recognized the hint of pride as Trent spoke, — it was present in the voice of almost every man she'd ever known, though some took much more care in trying to conceal it than others. 

Though he hadn't exactly seemed like the cockiest guy she'd ever met in their earlier interactions, she could see the change in his demeanor as he took a seat in the chair in front of the soundboard. He grinned, crossing one leg over the other as he turned the chair around to face her. 

"It was quite the project. I had to rip out walls, put new ones in, soundproof it..." 

Bettie raised her eyebrows. "It's soundproofed, huh?" 

"Yeah," Trent replied. "Makes it a bit easier to come in here at odd hours of the night and..."

"So you're telling me that, if you decided to try something right now, nobody would hear me scream?" Bettie interrupted him. 

With that, Trent's self-assured smile melted away. Just like he had in all the pictures she'd seen of him, he looked deathly serious. "That's fucked up, Bettie." 

She snorted in reply, idly examining the various switches and buttons laid out in front of her. "Like you're any stranger to fucked up," she says. "A little birdy told me you fabricated a snuff movie to make a name for yourself. It's not like you're the type all the girls are dying to take home to mother..." 

Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she could see the way he was looking at her, eyes flashing something like resentment. She wasn't any stranger to that, of course, — in fact, she had to turn back away quickly to mask the satisfied smirk that was beginning to form on her lips. 

It was clear that Trent didn't find it quite so amusing. "Why is it that you have such an attitude?"

"Attitude?" Bettie chuckled wryly. "Honey, I was born with that. Brian never told you I was a bitch?"

Trent scoffed. "God... how old are you?"

"A good bit younger than you, but you still spend a lot of time whining, don't you? I mean, your record label wanted you to bullshit a pop record, so you decided you'd kick and scream to try and get your way..." 

She heard the wheels chair slide against the floor as he stood. "What the fuck does fucking Gottlieb have to do with any of this?" 

His frustration was getting the better of him. Bettie could hear it in his raised voice. She wondered what she'd have to do to get him to snap. 

"That's a sore spot, huh?" She turned around, leaning into his equipment. "Sorry to step on your toes. It's just that, well... you don't seem to be the most mature guy out there, seeing as how you sulk for a living..."

"Listen to me." 

Those words struck enough of a chord for her to look up and meet his gaze. 

He was pissed alright, jaw clenched, eyes filled with clear contempt. She figured he had half a mind to go ahead and chew her out, — they were in a soundproofed room, after all. 

But his voice was maddeningly even when he spoke again, his voice holding only the weakest hint of a warning. "I don't have any plans to play any of your games, Bettie."

Bettie made an effort to give him the sweetest smile she possibly could. "Oh, — you think I want to play with you, huh?"

"Quit." He backed away from her. With a sigh, he returned to his chair, reaching up to massage his temple. Fifteen minutes alone with the man, and Bettie had already managed to give him a headache. It was quite the impressive feat, truly. 

Pulling his hand away, he shot her another glare. "You probably don't know what you're in for," he continued, "but you aren't some nobody fucking around in a local band anymore. You aren't here to have fun. You're here to work. Understood?"

Bettie rolled her eyes in reply. Who did this guy think he was, — a drill sargent? 

"Look," Trent continued, "it's becoming clear to me that you and I don't get along very well. That's fine. We don't have to be friends. But we have to respect each other enough to work toge—"

Bettie raised her hands. "Fine, fine," she interrupted. "I get it. You're the boss, I need to grow up, kumbaya and shit. With all due respect, though, can I please go back to bed? I'll have you know I was having a lovely dream..." 

Trent grimaced. "I've got one more thing to say before you do."

"And what's that?" Bettie challenged him.

He was more stone-faced now then ever before. "Keep in mind that you're completely disposable," he told her. "I've replaced musicians before. It's nothing to find somebody else." 

Those words left her frozen, smile melting away. Not for the first time since she'd been in this house, her mind went flashing back to Brad. 

He'd been replaced, — Bettie stepped up, filled his place like it was nothing, and to everyone else, she supposed it wasn't. To her, it might have felt like the worst in a nonlinear sequence of horrible things she had done, but no one else cared. She was sure the rest of the world would feel the same way if she was the next person to get the boot.

"I'll keep that in mind." Her voice was more than cool now, — it was cold, sterile.

"Good," Trent replied calmly.

Opening the door, Bettie turned around to give him a wry grin, — and a good, long look at her middle finger.


	8. who the hell is daisy?

The week after Bettie arrived was more of the same.

They must have listened to that damned tape a few hundred times, Trent pausing and rewinding it to tell them what parts sounded especially awful, to which Brian would reply with an attentive nod. They spent a good amount of time in the studio, but there was something incomplete about recording bits and pieces of an album with just a vocalist and a bassist. All the same, Bettie did her best to put down a few of the basslines, - only to get stopped halfway through the recording nearly every time.

Like now.

It wasn't even noon yet, and she was pretty sure she was on her twentieth attempt at "Snake Eyes and Sissies." And there was Trent, yelling at her from behind the glass again. "Stop." 

Bettie froze, watching as he leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face like he was the one who ought to feel exasperated.

With a sigh, she pulled her headphones off, dropping them around her neck. "What now?" she shouted back at him.

Trent simply shook his head, which was probably the closest thing to useful feedback that he had provided Bettie with all morning. She heard the door into the recording booth open, followed by his voice, no longer muffled by the glass betwen them. "I don't quite know what it is," he said. "It just doesn't sound right to me. You know?"

Bettie inhaled sharply, bristling. "No, I don't know," she replied. "I'm playing it exactly like it is on the tape. Exactly how Gidget played it." 

"Hmm... well, I figure there has to be a reason Gidget got kicked out, then." 

Bettie opened her mouth to shoot back a sharp response, - something along the lines of 'he went to rehab, you pretentious dickwad,' - but then she felt a hand brush her hip, and it startled the concentration out of her. She jumped back. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Hold still," Trent responded nonchalantly. "I just want to tune your bass." 

Bettie bit her tongue, cutting her eyes at him as he fiddled with the knobs, a look of concentration on his face. She knew full well that she could have so easily slammed the headstock into his mouth, knocked out a tooth or two, but she pushed that thought away, knowing how well it would probably serve her employment status. After all, she was obviously disposable.

"There." He stepped back. "Now try."

Rolling her eyes, Bettie methodically plucked out the same line she had attempted so many times that morning. She stopped halfway through, turning back around to shoot Trent a sharp glare. 

"That sounds like shit," she announced. "You didn't do anything but put my bass out of tune." Frantically, she began twisting the pegs, attempting to right everything again. 

Even though she was clearly pissed out of her mind, Trent didn't realize that it would be in his best interests to keep his mouth shut. "Sorry."

"No, you aren't." Bettie didn't look up from her bass for fear of what she might do if she looked at him, - her arrest record had been clean since she was fourteen, and she intended to keep it that way for the time being. "Why do you think you know everything? I get that you think you're such a great musician and all, but couldn't you get your head out of your own ass for one second before you decided to fuck my bass up?" 

"Oh, my head's in my ass?" Trent shot back. "That's hilarious. Last I checked, I was the one producing your album. What did you expect me to do, - sit here and tell you how great everything sounded?" 

Bettie kept her head down. Her face felt as though it were about to physically burst into flames. "At least I can play in the correct tuning."

"Yeah, but this isn't a school talent show. It's gonna take a little bit more than-"

Without warning, Bettie whipped her head around. "What the fuck did you just say?" she demanded.

Once again, Trent's eyes met hers, magnet to metal. "I said this isn't a school talent show," he repeated. "It takes more than knowing how to tune your instrument to be a good musician." 

Bettie laughed bitterly. "Well, you don't even know how to tune it. What does that say about you, huh?" 

"I'm not a bassist."

"So why act like you know what you're doing?"

"I can figure most things out."

"So can I." 

"Then fix your bass."

Furiously, Bettie continued fidgeting with the tuning pegs until she thought they were where they had been before. Giving up, she sat down in the floor and dropped her bass into her lap. 

"You know what I think, Trent?" 

"What?" 

"I think you're a bit too confident in your abilities." 

Trent huffed out a laugh. "Well, that makes two of us, Bettie."

Bettie lifted her bass strap from her shoulders, abandoning the instrument on the floor as she rose to her feet, hands placed on her hips. "You know, I never quite got what Brian liked so much about your music," she said. "I mean, I get that you think you're God's greatest gift to industrial since Skinny Puppy, but it's sort of hard to take you seriously when all you do is whine about being pissed off and horny." 

A wry grin turning up the corners of his lips, Trent looked her up and down before offering his rebuttal. "It's kind of hard to take you seriously when you're parading around in a White Zombie T-shirt." That small grin soon grew into a full-on smile, the likes of which she'd never seen on him. "You know, I can hardly tell you apart from their bassist." 

Bettie scoffed. "This is coming from the guy who wrote the discount version of "Dig It" and called it good?" 

"You know your song titles, huh? That's pretty impressive. Up until now, I had assumed your music taste probably lined up with your experience as a hair metal groupie." 

"Oh, that's a cheap shot," Bettie said. 

Trent shrugged. "Not really. Didn't you admit to fucking Axl Rose? And don't worry, — next time I see Tommy Lee, I'll tell him you said hi." 

"Haven't you let Al Jourgensen put it in your ass?"

"Brian says you'll let him put it wherever he wants." 

For whatever reason, those words threw her off guard. Of course, she should have considered the fact that Brian might brag about their arrangement before then, — hell, she might as well have accepted it as fact without even asking him. Part of her said that she shouldn't even be offended, — for the most part, he was telling the truth. 

Still, the thought of it put a sour taste in her mouth, bringing back a feeling akin to the way she felt when she returned to public school, only to find that everyone had already heard her story and made up their minds. Her classmates decided it then, and it seemed Trent was deciding it now. 

She knew it was ridiculous, and yet...

"You're telling me I'm a whore," she spoke quietly. 

The cocky smile fading from his face, Trent held his hands up. "I didn't say that. It's just what—"

Not wanting to listen to his attempts at backtracking, she cut him off. "Fuck you." 

She caught one last glimpse of his face. For whatever reason, the motherfucker looked guilty. Yeah, right.

"Bettie..." 

With a bitter laugh, she turned around. Heading for the door of the studio, she repeated the sentiment once more, this time with even more conviction. "Fuck you."

"Aren't you going to try and finish the track?"

Yeah, she thought. Maybe when I don't want to wring you and Brian's necks. 

She slammed the door behind her. 

\- 

"Where ya going, Bets?" 

Bettie didn't answer, walking past where Brian was sat on the couch. She didn't even want to look at him, — instead, she found her eyes wandering towards the bloodstained wall again. 

Pig. 

Yeah. That's what he was.

"Bettie." 

She turned away from the wall, crossing her arms as she headed for the kitchen. Food. That's what she needed. She hadn't eaten all day, and her head was starting to ache. She opened the refrigerator, peering inside. 

"Bet-tie..." 

She leaned over, inspecting the shelves. Much to her dismay, the fridge was barren, — nothing but a few canned drinks and a jar of mayonnaise. "Fucking Hellmann's," she muttered. 

Brian still wouldn't shut up. "Betttiiieee... Hello?"

Don't acknowledge him, she told herself. It gives him power. She stared at the drinks on the second shelf, — Diet Coke and cheap beer. She stood there a while, pondering her decision.

Well... it's five o'clock somewhere, she finally decided. Grabbing a can and popping the tab, she pushed the refrigerator door closed. 

As she lifted the can to her lips, she heard a faint growl. She turned around, only to see the dog glaring at her, lip curled back. 

She waved a hand. "Go somewhere else, dog. Go on." 

The growling only grew louder, followed by Brian's calls. "Bettie?"

She leaned back into the kitchen counter, burying her face in her hands. She hated this. 

She hated Trent and she hated Brian and she hated this album and this house and the empty fridge and Trent's dog that apparently held grudges. 

She hated all of it, really.

In truth, she was beginning to want to go back home. Except she wasn't quite sure where home was. She didn't particularly want to return to Brian's place. Before that, her home was a house full of girls, all of whom despised her for various reasons, — most of which were justified. And before that, it was the shitty apartment that she shared with her mother before she hauled ass to Nevada, leaving her with no choice but to...

"Think fast, Bets!" 

Something hit her face, causing her to flinch as it bounced off her cheek and onto her shoulder, only to somehow get tangled in her hair. Finally, her head snapped back up, causing her to shoot a death glare at Brian, who had apparently eventually followed her into the kitchen. 

"What the hell is it?" she growled, reaching down to pick the flying object, — whatever it was, — out of her hair. 

She yanked at it, retrieving what seemed to be a rainbow colored Slinky. 

She tossed it back towards Brian, managing only to hit him in the chest. "You jackass. Where did you even get that?"

Brian examined the Slinky, still grinning like an idiot. "Bought it at the dollar store, but it's tangled now. Good job." 

He turned around, abandoning the toy on the kitchen table before smiling at her, the silver ring in the corner of his lip shining in the faint light from the window. "How'd the recording go?"

"Awful," Bettie snapped. "Didn't get a damned thing done." Remembering the beer in her hand, she downed the rest of it in one gulp before crushing the can in her hand and tossing it into the sink. "But you can go in there. He'd probably take more kindly to your company." 

Brian's grin quickly turned to a frown. "Shit, Bettie." He ran a hand through his long black hair, looking worried. "You pissed Trent off?" 

She chuckled. "No worse than he pissed me off, I can assure you." She sauntered back to the fridge, grabbed another beer, opened it. "Speaking of, I didn't know how much you liked to kiss and tell. So unless you learn how to keep your mouth shut, I'm gonna tell him that you hardly ever last for even five minutes."

"That's not true," Brian argued. "Not without round two, anyway..."

"If you don't want it to happen, stop telling him that I'll let you put it wherever. Trent's words, not mine." 

She threw back the second beer. When she discarded that can, Brian was eyeing warily. "Slow down, Bets," he said.

"Don't tell me what to do," Bettie shot back. "You can't save it for the bedroom, either. You're gonna have to find some other girl to fuck." 

"I think you're—"

"I'm going outside," she interrupted. "To clear my head." 

\- 

Half an hour later, she was baking in the sun, toes dipped in the bright blue water of the swimming pool, head beginning to swim with the lazy haze of alcohol. She was used to drinking, but not two beers in less than five minutes. The sunlight was sort of making her stomach churn, but she couldn't bring herself to get up and go back inside. So she sat there, buzzed and probably getting a sunburn, kicking her feet absentmindedly. 

She couldn't hear any noise coming from inside, — Trent and Brian had probably retreated into the soundproofed studio, maybe or maybe not discussing her sexual prowess and/or what a horrible bitch she was. She closed her eyes, taking a gulp of fresh summer air. 

It was really quite serene out here. It was too hot, sure, but it felt like she had her own tiny world within the confines of the fence. She was sitting on the edge of the biggest pool she'd ever seen in person, listening to the chirps and caws and melodies of birds, palms on the warm concrete. It was quiet, and she was alone, and she could breathe. 

She used this time to clear her head, just as she promised Brian she would. 

Maybe this hazy moment would be her first step towards letting go. 

Maybe she'd stop thinking of Brad every time she was alone, — it wasn't her decision to let him go, after all, and hey, c'est la vie. 

Hopefully she'd finally leave Brian alone for good now, at least when it came to sex. That would certainly save her a decent amount of grief, — at least when that grief came in the crushing weight she always seemed to feel post coitus, that sickeningly familiar sensation of regret. 

She might even be able to convince herself to suck it up and see this recording thing through, — after all, within a week, Scott, Pogo, and Freddy would be there. Things would be easier then, — they'd be able to lay the tracks down that much quicker, and it wouldn't be so awkward, constantly finding herself sandwiched between Trent and Brian and not getting along with either of them. Things just might end up being hunky dory in the end, — they'd release the album, and it would chart, and all of them would live happily ever after in the lap of luxury. 

Bettie would have her own place, with her own huge pool, and she'd never have to remember the ex-boyfriends she left in Florida or snorting coke in Brian's bathroom or downing beers in Trent's kitchen or standing on street corners, feeling hot and sick like she did now...

A steady beeping noise mingled in with the birdsong, pulling her from her daydream. 

She looked down at her arm, only to find the source of the sound.

Her pager. 

"Bettie," she heard the voice say. "It's, um... Pogo. Listen, I fucked up real bad and it ended with Berkowitz being in the hospital and I wanted you to hear it first before Manson slits my throat so if you could call me back..." 

Groaning, Bettie stood up, tripping slightly over her own feet. "Shit," she cursed, stumbling back inside, dialing the number flashing across the screen into the phone on the kitchen wall.

The dog lifted its head again, eyeing her curiously.

Bettie lifted a finger. "Don't even try it," she warned, listening to the waiting ring on the other line.

Finally, someone picked up. "Hello?"

"Pogo," Bettie started. "You better tell me what's going on right now, or I swear to God I will..." 

"Okay," he cut her off swiftly. "So I took Daisy for a night on the town last night..." 

Faintly, she could hear a muffled voice protesting in the background. Whoever was speaking sounded thoroughly distressed, shouting with what sounded like small pitiful cries in between. It sounded... like Scott.

"Oh, Jesus," she said. "Is that him?" 

"Yeah," Pogo replied, sounding uncharacteristically dejected. "Basically, we stayed at the club too long, and he got trashed. When the bartender cut us both off, we went outside to catch a cab. I guess I was too drunk to react in time, because Daisy started falling forward and I couldn't catch him..." 

The muffled cries behind Pogo's voice grew louder. "Who the hell is Daisy? I'm Scott!" 

"Hey, it's alright, man. You're cool. Calm down." Scott still crying in the background, Pogo returned his attention to Bettie. "Long story short, he got a face full of pavement and a concussion. It's really bad, Bettie, — like, short term memory loss bad. The doctor says he's seen severe car accidents with better outcomes..." 

"Car accidents?" Scott shrieked. "I was in a car accident? Who are you? What happened to me?"

Bettie sighed. "Put him on the phone," she told Pogo.

"Put him on the phone?" he echoed, sounding shocked. "You want to talk to him while he's... like this?"

"You're obviously not making him feel any better," she said, leaning into the wall. "Let me talk to him." 

"Hey, — it's your deathwish." Muffled, he continued. "Hey, Daisy, it's —"

"WHO'S DAISY?"

"Pogo, hand him the fucking phone!" 

"Okay!" 

Clearer now, Bettie heard a dramatic sniffle, followed by a quiet voice. "Hello?" 

"Hey, Scott," she began gently. "It's your friend, Bettie. How're you feeling, buddy?" 

Scott sniffled again. "Not... great," he said. "My head hurts, and they've got me on a bunch of drugs..." He paused for a while, followed by another pitiful, hiccuping statement. "I don't do drugs!"

She rolled her eyes before continuing. "Listen to me," she said. "You're going to be fine, okay? You didn't get into a car accident, — you fell on the sidewalk, and you hit your head, but you're gonna be good, alright?"

Scott whimpered again. "Okay."

"Okay," Bettie echoed. "Now, hand the phone back to Pogo." 

"Okay."

Once Pogo was on the other line, the edge returned to her voice. "Are the two of you still going to be able to make it to LA?" 

"I think so," Pogo said. "They wanna keep him in the hospital for at least a few more days, then I guess he'll need some time to recover before getting on a plane, but... we'll try to make it. It's mostly the painkillers throwing him off now, I think..." 

"Please," Bettie cut in frantically. "Please, Pogo. Even if Scott can't come, I need you and The Wheel to make it. We've got to finish this thing, — me and Trent aren't getting along, and Brian and I..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Just... get over here." 

"We'll do our best," he replied. "Oh, — here comes the nurse. Sexy little number. Talk to you later."

With that, his voice faded into a steady hum.

Bettie hung the phone back up. Knowing Trent wouldn't hear, she tilted her head back, yelling the only word there was to describe her feelings at the moment.

"FUCK!"


End file.
